


There is no pain, you are receding

by basaltgrrl



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl





	There is no pain, you are receding

Gene woke from a dream in which he was crying.

Not crying, not really. Not blubbering. Not whining for his mam, no. Not sobbing like a child. Not the body-shaking wail of the grieving, nor the silent, coursing tears of the lonely. He scrubbed his hands across his face, absolutely not wiping tears away. No, it was just that his eyes were crusty. He'd been sick. He had reason to feel this way, dead tired like he'd gone ten rounds, aching from his toes to the top of his head and it was worse than a beating because he'd got nothing to show for it except a table full of pill bottles and grotty handkerchiefs. 

"Sam," he said--tried to say. His voice was gone.

He closed his eyes again. The dream; couldn't tell if he was grown or young, just that he'd been crying his eyes out. His chest still ached with it. It didn't seem fair, to wake still ruddy miserable from something you couldn't even remember. There were no details, just an overwhelming memory of sadness. Or--he tried to bring it back. Felt like it would be better if he could remember. Have something to pin this feeling on. Had he been crying for his mam? Because of his dad?

No.

The ticking of a clock. A dog barking, outside and distant. Utter silence within the house. Where was Sam? Had he gone back to his shitty flat? To work? To the shops? He rolled his head to the side and looked for signs of him. He hadn't left anything; no clothes, no books, but the memory of him lingered as real as the fug of cigarette smoke. He'd been there the night before, putting a cool hand on Gene's forehead. 

Gene lifted a hand to feel his own temperature--so tired, it felt like a lead weight--but he felt dry, normal, if that word could be applied to weariness like this. Sam had been here. Sam had made him tea, had tried to make him eat, had put a kind hand on his back as he puked his guts out. It seemed like a dream for more than one reason; no one had offered that kind of comfort since Gene'd been a boy and his mam had a soft hand in contrast to his father's hard one.

He shook his head in frustration. It was ruddy awful to be this sick. He didn't like feeling like this, feeling knocked over and weak, whinging like a girl. That was quite enough of the maudlin woe-is-me shite, thank you very much. Perhaps he should go back to sleep and wake up again a new man. Only, the longer he laid in bed the more he needed a slash. Quite badly in fact. Felt like he'd been downing rounds for hours, the way it ached.

At long last Gene rolled gingerly onto his side and then levered himself to a sitting position. The room rocked and spun for a moment before settling in, shaping itself around his shoulders like a heavy blanket. It was all pushing down on him, making his legs shake as he slowly rose to his feet, one hand on the bedside table.

"Sam?" A note of uncertainty in his voice. He didn't appreciate that, decided that he'd sound much more authoritative the next time he opened his mouth.

The wall was helpful, for his walk to the loo. Supportive. Cool against his stubbled cheek, when he stopped to rest. Comforting, when he sank down to sit against it. His bladder, however, was downright infuriating and despite it's urgings he had no intention of giving in to piss himself right there on the hall carpet. Back to his feet, then, few more steps, doorway, toilet, ease down and... release.

He closed his eyes again, slumped back against the wall in the delightful pleasure of being emptied. Too weary to think. Too weary to be hungry, but there was a glass on the ledge next to the bathroom mirror, and once he forced himself to his feet again he filled it twice and drained it. It felt good to drink, and he didn't even have the slightest desire for a nip of scotch. A fag, though... They were probably in his jacket pocket, downstairs, near the front door. The mere thought of going down for them appalled him.

Right, back to bed. The walk down the hall seemed shorter this time. The bed was as welcoming as an embrace, a soft, comforting nest of his own smells and body heat. He relaxed into it with a sigh. Now back to sleep, to wake with energy and verve, to Sam's welcoming presence and a huge fry-up. It was easy to imagine the two of them in the kitchen together, back to normal and recovered from this buggered interval of not being himself. He drifted.

***

"Oi!"

It was a bark like a menacing dog. Gene cringed, shoulders around his ears like he could block the anticipated blow.

"You! Hunt!"

He walked faster, tucking his school books tighter under his arm, staring at the pavement just a few feet ahead of his scuffed toes. He could make this go away if he concentrated hard enough. He could make himself safe. It worked at home, sometimes. At night, when he imagined that he was alone in the house, he could feel safe. Not during the day, at school, and never when he dad was in a mood, but sometimes. He could make himself safe through sheer belief.

Rapid footsteps behind him, more than one pair, and shite, he was in trouble. Alone, Geordie had already split off toward his house, Frankie had stayed late at school. It seemed darker, as well, a menacing rumble of thunder in the air. 

"Stop, you little gobshite!" He recognized the voice without having to look; Patrick was a year older and a stone heavier, a right bastard of a schoolyard bully. Patrick liked to pound on younger lads but he was scared of Gene's brother Stu. What were the chances that Stu might happen along to save him just now? Slim to none. Stu had left the house early, off on business only he knew about.

A heavy hand landed on Gene's shoulder, spun him in his tracks. Patrick seemed ten feet tall, overwhelmingly huge. Gene tried to kick him in the shins but he effortlessly held Gene off, laughing. His pocked face was split by a huge, sneering grin, revealing crooked teeth. "You're a maggot, Hunt! I should squash you!"

"You couldn't. Stu'll smash your face in, you knob!"

"Wouldn't be so sure of that, maggot--" and with those words Patrick shoved Gene into the side of a parked car so hard that his head bounced off the window, leaving a network of cracks. Gene stumbled back, wobbly, almost slipping out of Patrick's fingers. "Oi, not done with you, gobshite!" He grabbed with both hands, fingers stabbing into Gene's skinny shoulders, fumbled for his wrist and twisted his arm up behind his back, hard enough that Gene's rage turned into a scream of pain.

"Stu!" he shrieked. "Help me!" He kicked and kicked, through the blinding pain, the noise in his head, and he might have caught Patrick in the knackers because he suddenly let go and Gene dropped, tripped forward and smashed his nose into the ground. And then he was scrambling, on hands and feet on the cracked macadam, putting distance between himself and his tormentor, although a tiny part of his brain was yelling that he should be attacking, not running away.

"I'll get you, you little shite!" The growl fired Gene's survival instincts to a knife edge.

"Won't," he gasped, and darted into the road. He tried to run across the street but he seemed stuck in place as if moving through treacle. It felt as though there was a mile between his head and his feet. No, this was wrong! Patrick's laugh was impossibly close behind him. The skin between Gene's shoulderblades crawled with anticipation of a blow, but he couldn't turn around, could only churn in place like a pinned fly. A drum beat seemed to fill the world, rapid as his heartbeat. 

And then he could look to the side, only to the right as a black sedan turned the corner and sped down the street, tyres screeching, magnified to immensity as if it was the only thing in the world, the only thing that mattered. Gene couldn't move fast enough to get out of the way--and what would his mam say? When they brought his squashed body home to her?

He could see the driver's knuckles on the steering wheel. He could see squashed bugs on the windshield. That would be him, in a moment, a red smear like a smashed tomato. His feet flailed.

"Mam--" he gasped, tried to brace for impact--

Something hit him--grabbed him under his arms, wrenched him aside in a painful jerk. He swung through the air, the entire world a blur of shapes and shadows, and strong hands set him down on the pavement, right next to the car with the cracked windshield. "Stay here," said a voice. The car passed by with a hiss of tyres on pavement, suddenly innocent and impersonal, mere feet away. Gene's rescuer shook a fist at it, yelled, "Watch where you're going!"

Alive. Shaking a little, one hand against a lamppost to support himself. "S-stu?" he stuttered, but he was talking to the back of a black leather jacket as the man turned to Patrick. 

"You don't hit little boys. Never again, mate. You got that?"

Patrick's face was white with fear. He had shrunk, now just a schoolboy in an old, patched jacket and scuffed shoes. "Sorry, sir." His voice cracked.

"I should have words with your parents."

"Won't do it again."

"You're bigger'n him. You should be better. Set a good example."

Gene gaped. In what world--who thought that was how things worked? What sort of nutter was this fellow? But Patrick was nodding with lowered head, respectful and retreating. It was over.

"All right?" The man crouched down in front of him. "You're bleeding, mate. Oughta get some pressure on that." He reached out to touch Gene's temple. 

"Thought I was done for," Gene managed in a whisper.

The man smiled. "Nope. Not with me around."

"Where'd you--I didn't see you..."

"I try to be here when you need me, Guv."

Gene blinked. Took a deep, shuddering breath. The world seemed to shiver around him. "Sam?"

Sam's smile warmed, his eyes squinting with it. "I'm here, Gene." The sun blazed out behind him, ringing his head in a halo of light. "I'm always here. I've come to take you home..."

***

"Gene!"

He opened his eyes. Bright--the shades had been opened, His heart was pounding like an engine in his chest, felt like it was making the bed vibrate. Someone was standing in the light--

"Sam," he gasped.

"You alright? You're not feverish any more. Are you hungry?"

Gene groaned and tossed his head back against the pillow. Fuck. A dream. That was all it was; a dream that had gutted him like a sharp knife. Christ, being sick was just like being smaller and weaker. Dependent. Relying on someone to take care of you. And on top of that, he felt worse than he had felt before. It was harder to be sick when the sun was shining.

"Hey." Sam's weight made the bed sink. His hand was cool on Gene's forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Where were you?" Petulant. 

"Shops. I thought I'd make something easy to digest. Figured you'd be tired of porridge. Think you could stomach a piece of toast?" Sam's voice was calm and even, but there was a weary edge to it.

Gene cracked an eye open. Sam had sat back, staring out through the window. He looked tired, circles under his eyes. All right, yes, this wasn't easy on Sam, either. "I had a dream," he said, experimentally.

"Yeah?" Sam turned his head.

"You were in it."

"What'd I do?"

Saved me. Avenging angel. "Police work," he coughed. "Kicking a nonce."

"Oh." Sam smiled a little. Tired but happy. How could he be so happy? All that nursemaiding. But it was the secret little smile, the one that he wore when he was pleased with something. Maybe he'd been expecting worse from Gene this morning; more frustration, less confusion. Maybe he liked being in Gene's dreams.

"Tea?" Gene tried to make it a request, not a demand. Out of consideration, like.

"Right." Sam put his hands on his knees, levered himself to his feet.

"And... some toast would be good, yeah. I think I could eat." 

"I'll bring it up."

"Sam." Gene coughed again, bending into it. "Thank you. For, you know. Being here." He flopped back on the pillow. So tired he was seeing stars. It was weird to thank Sam for something he hadn't asked him to do, but it seemed necessary.

Sam put a hand to his mouth, gave an apologetic little cough himself. "God, Gene, you don't usually say those things. But thanks. And--if not me, then who?" He looked stricken right after saying it, as if he realized it was in poor taste to point out how solitary Gene's life appeared to be.

An explanation seemed appropriate. "Me mum's long gone," Gene whispered, "Wife too, ta very much. Told you about Stu. So. I appreciate your patience and care, Gladys. Tea and toast would be grand. And then you need a kip yourself."

"Been a long night."

"You look like the dog's breakfast."

A little fight came back into Sam's expression. "And you look like what came out of the other end. But enough of the fond banter; I'll be back with the toast."

"You don't have to go back to your flat. Have a kip in the spare room."

"Already did last night. But thanks for the offer."

Gene watched Sam's retreating back through half-lidded eyes. The swagger of him. The sheer improbability of a man stepping up to take care of his sick DCI. And then there was the dream. Couldn't think about it much right now, with the tiredness sapping his will. Maybe later.

***

Gene roused in the afternoon. The sun was slanting in the side window, painting the wall golden. He stared without interest for a minute, then rolled over and into a sitting position. Good. It felt--better. Still tired, but not the desperate near-death experience he'd been through. He dismissed that as nancy whinging, but remained seated with his heartbeat thudding in his ears and pressed his toes against the carpet. 

Sam. Still in the house? He'd said he was going to sleep.

The walk down the hall to the loo was bearable. He relieved himself, scrubbed his face with soap and water and thought about a bath until he decided food might come first.

The door to the spare room was half-closed. He pushed it open and flicked on the light. Sam was curled up on the bed, still clothed although he had taken off his jacket, with the counterpane wrapped clumsily around him. His forehead was wrinkled as though even in sleep he was fretting over some evidence, some half-solved case.

Gene reached out to prod his shoulder, thought better of it and touched fingertips to his bare face. Why was that a better idea? Because he looked so tired, so worried, he deserved gentle treatment. Like a bird. Sam's skin was hot. "Shit."

He tried the shoulder-prod after all. Sam's eyes slitted open. "Mum?" He blinked, grimaced. "Gene?"

"Yes, it's me, yer bleedin' DCI. And from the looks of things, your nursie for the next few days. Had to make me return the favor, didn't you, Sammy-boy?"

"Sorry," he groaned. "I'll go back to mine." He started to sit up and extricate himself from the blankets, but Gene gave him a push that settled him right down.

"Don't be daft. You're staying here. But get those shoes off. I'll bring a spare duvet. And tea." Gene looked around the room for a moment, wondering what else Sam might need. Anywhere but at Sam, at that lost, vulnerable expression--Christ, he'd seen it on Sam's face so many times now, since the very day he'd walked in to CID ranting about his desk. 

"I'm sorry, Gene."

"Don't be." He put a hand on Sam's burning forehead. The dream-Sam still lingered; strong, in charge. Gene cleared his throat uncomfortably. It's not like he had a choice; he couldn't let the man bugger off into the night. "I'm here, Sam. I'm here for you."

Sam's eyes widened. He swallowed. "Well," he said dryly. "I hope you still feel that way when I'm puking my guts out at 2 a.m."


End file.
